Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  “Quite, quite. No difficulty there I think. Follow me. We shall take supper first, however.”

  The supper hall was long, low-ceilinged and in part below ground level, so that, looking through the windows at the top of the hall, Kornukope saw boots and the hems of skirts, with a hint of green grass. The food was excellent: roast ptarmigan, brazzled turkey wattles and side dishes of green spook and spinach. Dessert was mashed peach in spritzer.

  “You have no difficulty acquiring food?” Kornukope asked Viennese. “We understood that you are besieged by starving tribes.”

  “Oh, we are,” Viennese replied. “The chateau is guarded by dogs. Walled and gated, yes. Far too dangerous to go out at night. But here, we are an institution. The government is keen to support its institutions!”

  Kornukope nodded: the point was germane. He said, “You must get regular deliveries.”

  “By aerial snood. Piloted by the Biggin Hill Aerodromia Patrol.”

  “Decent fellows!”

  “Indeed.”

  After supper Viennese led them to the upper floor of the chateau, where lay a number of cells fronted by locked iron grilles. Sad, bedraggled characters lay inside, mostly women Kornukope noticed; hysterical, he had little doubt. But at the end was a large cell in which sat a young man, spare of frame, mousey haired, wearing ragged clothes and shoes with holes in them.

  “This is Hornelius Struckett,” Viennese announced. He unlocked the grille then opened it so they could enter. At once Yeggman and Zarina walked in, so Kornukope followed, then Eastachia and Viennese.

  Yeggman and Zarina were keen; they took chairs and sat in front of Hornelius. But Hornelius appeared frightened. Viennese looked on, writing with a piece of charcoal on a paper pad.

  “You are Hornelius Struckett?” said Yeggman.

  “Yes, I am,” came the reply. Kornukope noticed that the man’s accent was the same as Zarina’s. He frowned, glanced at Eastachia, then shrugged.

  “And you know the source of London’s hairy plague?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Yeggman glanced back over his shoulder at Viennese.

  “Carry on!” Viennese insisted.

  “Then tell me,” Yeggman said with a shrug.

  “It is the King himself.”

  “King Victorian? Surely not. How so?”

  Hornelius continued, “I was a footman working in Windsor Castle until the events that had me thrown out, then brought here. But I am innocent! I saw the King himself create the hairy plague with ringlets from Germany. It is all a plot! The Kaiser means to invade, to have this country, which they consider their right – through Queen Alberta, you understand.”

  “I understand,” Yeggman said.

  “He used the thaumaturgical liturgies of the Lutherian Protestants to make a fabulous goatee, which he then propelled into an ever-expanding mane. That mane now covers London. The reason it is so luxuriant here is because Windsor is so near. It is the truth, I tell you!”

  “I’m sure it is,” Yeggman replied, placing his hand on Hornelius’ arm to calm the man. “And you’re certain you saw King Victorian do this?”

  “I was promoted from footman to valet. The King valued me! Then I told somebody what I had seen, and I was expelled. They said I was mad. But I’m not mad! It is the truth, you have to believe me.”

  Yeggman stood up, turned to Viennese and said, “I’ve heard enough.”

  “You are not going to analyse him?” Kornukope asked.

  “Not yet. The gist of the story will suffice for now.”

  They departed the cell, descending ivory-covered staircases to the gaming rooms of the ground floor, where Viennese gestured them to couches and chairs. When they were settled, and had been served drinks, he spoke.

  “You must remember, we are in an institution that cares for the mental.”

  Kornukope nodded. “Hornelius Struckett could be suffering from delusions.”

  “Most of what he says makes sense, as I observed before. But of course we have no proof. It is proof that we need. Hence my suggestion to send the mindometer.”

  “What do you think?” Kornukope asked Yeggman.

  Yeggman swirled the purple brandy in his glass, then took a sip of it. “I think the man’s telling the truth. And to get proof, all we’d have to do is go to Windsor Castle.”

  “They would never let us in,” Kornukope said. “If there is even a sniff of the government about, they will lock every gate. You know how the King loathes the Prime Minister, not to mention Lord Blandhubble.”

  “And most of the rest of the Cabinet,” Eastachia observed.

  Yeggman nodded. “That’s true,” he said, “but I’m a cunning man. We can get our proof, of that I’m sure.” He smiled and nodded. “You leave it to me.”

  “To you, sir?”

  Yeggman made no reply.

  Kornukope felt uneasy. Something here did not fit. He said, “I am concerned that these German ringlets were apparently used. King Victorian can trace his family back through the Hanoverian line. Queen Alberta is of Gothic origin–”

  “Are you suggesting,” Yeggman interrupted, “that our beloved royal family is corrupt?”

  Silence fell across the gaming room. Kornukope, surprised, stared at Yeggman. Had he gone too far? He did not think so.

  He replied, “All I am saying is that a man – were he not blinded by circumstance – could read much into the Teutonic nature of the royal family, the designs of the Kaiser, and Struckett’s claim as to the origin of hairy London. That, sir, is the limit of my speculation. I am a philosopher. I speculate.”

  Yeggman scowled. “We must go to Windsor Castle,” he said. “And soon.”

  Kornukope got to his feet. “Then that, sir, we shall do.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The ferry was a shoe-shaped semi-schooner, set with black sails and stinking of skate and seaweed, that had been converted to run folk across the Thames by the captain, Gormane Thinnograde, a loungelubber round of face and flat of feet. He wore oilskins and boots, like the tars who worked for him.

  “Have you never considered changing your vessel’s name?” Sheremy asked.

  Gormane shook his head. “’Tis bad luck to.”

  “But the Titanic stories…”

  “Nonsense dreamed up by competitors that we takes no notice of.”

  Sheremy shrugged, glancing at Missus. “Seems fair enough,” he remarked. Missus made no comment.

  With the anchor hauled up and twenty other passengers aboard, they settled down for the crossing, which Gormane estimated would take five hours.

  Sheremy frowned. “You sail so slowly?”

  Gormane grinned, as if suffering the naîve notions of a brat. “The Thames is a strange river, full of tales and mystery, that you sir know nothin’ about. ’Tis advisable to steer clear of such mysteries, I’ve found, which makes for a crooked course. Now pay your fee, if you please.”

  Lacking coins Missus had to part with her only ring, a silver band given to her inside Bedlam by an inmate. Gormane inspected it beneath his spyglass, then nodded and threw back a trio of copper farthings. “I’m nothin’ if not fair,” he explained.

  Sheremy glanced over the gunwale at the fog rolling up the river. Already he could see flashing lanterns in this fog, and hear the appalling cries of victims drowning. Behind him, on the south bank, dogs howled and women wailed. Ancient tales were coming alive…

  “I’m going beneath deck,” he said, “before the mysteries grab us.”

  They descended a flight of steps to the Sconce Deck, where Sheremy saw a string quartet playing, and, delight of delights, a bar. Taking one of the farthings he purchased a rumour and soda for Missus and a whisky for himself. Goodness, he was in need of a drink; this was his first for some considerable time. Grinning at Missus he said, “This is the life!”

  She still looked worried about the Titanic’s notoriety, but her wan smile was better than no smile and Sheremy found himself appreciating what a pretty woma
n she was.

  Dash it, though! She was far below his station. Embarrassed, he glanced away, cleared his throat, then sat her on a stool, and himself beside her. “My dear,” he said, “are you really the daughter of an Indoo princess?”

  At once – as if telepathically – she seemed to grasp his thought process. With insouciant grace she replied, “Why Sheremy, you’s got quite the twinkles in your eye. And me only one of the lower classes.”

  He compressed his lips together, at once annoyed by her cheek, annoyed by her quick wits, attracted by her charm. “My dear,” he said, “one such as I has a station to keep. It’s an accident of birth however. As you know, I value you.” He sipped his whisky. “Seriously, I do. You’re quite something.”

  She softened. “I knows you values me. And I values you.”

  “What a shame you’re a mulatto.”

  She gasped, sat upright, then threw her drink into his face. “You fool! Why’d you have to spoils it, eh?” And she stormed off.

  “But… but… accident of birth,” he murmured.

  The barman, a tow-headed youth, spat in the glass he was cleaning and began wiping it with a cloth. “I’d run after that ’un and ’pologise,” he said.

  Sheremy stood up. “Nobody asked you, mister tradesman,” he said.

  He departed the bar and hurried after her, but, escaping the crush at the end of the Sconce Deck, he found that he had lost her. Querying a jack tar he discovered she had fled to the Hoop Deck. He must apologise. He must. Visions of mistakes with Valantina returned to his mind, and he cursed himself for being a nincompoop.

  “Missus,” he called out. “Where are you?”

  As he passed a door an arm reached out, grabbed him and drew him into the doorway. He glimpsed lace, dark hair, heaving breasts; he smelled perfume and fur. Before he realised it he was inside a cabin, a catwoman before him.

  “We always gets our man,” she said.

  Her voice was soft, and familiar, though he sensed this was not the catwoman who had bedazzled him at the bordello. Must be the other one. Damned hell, he was in trouble.

  But too late. She was naked before him and he was taking off his jacket. Her contours were astonishing. It was like pink architecture. He never before had noticed how a woman was constructed.

  Then she lay on her back upon the bed, her stocking’d legs raised high. He flung off his clothes and leaped upon her… then everything was a blur. A blur of intensity like raw meths in his bloodstream, a heat like the heart of the sun. A thing beneath him, an animal, and yet a person…

  He found himself lying at her side, a single cotton sheet upon his glowing body. She lay beside him. And he looked at her face and saw it fade from cat to human… to woman. It was Missus.

  She turned over and gazed at him, her expression unreadable. Her hair was soft and flowery perfumed, her eyes dark orbs of pain, albeit edged with pleasure. “That was nice,” she said with a shy smile.

  “So you,” he murmured, “you… are one of them?”

  “It’s the curse of Old Father Thames,” she said. “I’m not one now, no… but I used to be. Oh, I used to be, like my mother.”

  “Who was…?”

  “An Indoo princess she was. Captured by a nob in Calcutty who was stayin’ with the Rajah. Sir… Sir… Fine, was it?”

  Sheremy sat up, resting his head on one hand, his elbow digging into a pillow. “Not Fain?”

  “Yes!”

  “Hoseley Fain?”

  She drew in a single quick breath. “Sheremy! Yes, that was the name. I’d forgot it ’til now. You knows the man, eh?”

  “Know him? He’s an absolute cad. In my club, sad to say. A bounder and a wretch, and he doesn’t like me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t rightly know.” Sheremy paused for thought for a few moments, pondering the events of the night of the wager. “You know, I don’t know. He’s always disliked me, mocked me, taunted me. And for what reason?”

  With her forefinger she touched his neck, then drew her caress down his chest to his belly. “Who could dislikes you, Sheremy?”

  He nodded. “I’m known as a decent man, my dear. A Britisher. I suppose I do have odd views on Suffering.”

  “Do you?”

  “Since meeting Valantina Moondusst, yes.”

  “Who was she?”

  He sighed. “Long story.”

  “A paramour?”

  “Dead now.” He sighed again. “But I’m here with you, and in all honesty and truth that’s what matters. And… I’m sorry I mocked you for being mulatto.”

  “I accepts.”

  For a moment, he felt sick. “I’ve been an idiot,” he said. “Until recently, anyway. But I’ll never forget what I‘ve been through lately.”

  “You know,” Missus said, “Sir Hoseley might be my father.”

  It was such a hideous thought he expelled it from his mind for as long as he could, until she reached out and hugged him. Then he said, “I suppose he could be the vile rapist. If I ever find out…”

  “Though he mightn’t be. Mother said there was a whole party of ’em.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “Eighth of March. I’m eighteen now.”

  Sheremy nodded. “Let’s assume he didn’t do it. I think I’d explode if I thought it was him.”

  “It doesn’t affect… us, does it?”

  He kissed her. “No, my dear,” he replied.

  After a while they returned to the bar, where Sheremy used a farthing to purchase more drinks. At a side table he saw a psychic mummer, and, on a whim, he took Missus over to see the man. Old, one-eyed and bedraggled, the man had all the tools of his trade before him: Tarotten cards, wine-and-honey, sprigs of heather, and a bowl of water from which steam rose.

  “What is the water for?” Sheremy asked.

  “Sees yer fortune,” the old man replied. “A farthin’ only.”

  Sheremy shrugged and handed over his last coin. The old man drew them in by gesturing with his hands in melodramatic fashion, until their faces were but six inches from the bowl. Sheremy began to feel uncomfortable. Though the water was clearly hot, the bowl and the table around it was cold, and the man’s blind eye had a distinct glow to the skin, as if something bright lay behind the diseased flap of flesh.

  “Ah,” he said, “I see terrors awaitin’, I do. Terrible terrors.”

  “Really?” Sheremy said, trying to appear unruffled. “But you people all say that, don’t you? It’s part of the game.”

  The old man cackled and clicked his fingers, whereupon Sheremy saw two stick figures floating in the water, that he realised represented him and Missus, floating on a crouton. He stared. Where had these objects come from?

  “Ah,” said the old man, “’tis a bane fair trip over the water, ain’t it?”

  Missus leaned in, trying to see through the steam what the figures were doing, but then there was a motion behind her and the tow-haired youth bumped into her, knocking her glass out of her hand. Sheremy turned around, vexed.

  “I’m so sorry ma’am,” the lad said, retrieving the tray he carried. “Slipped, I did.”

  “Go away!” the old man barked.

  Sheremy turned back. Missus stared at the bowl. One of the ice cubes in her drink had leaped from glass to bowl, and was now floating towards the crouton. As he watched, it bumped into the crouton. The crouton sank. The stick figure representing Missus sank too, though the other floated. And as Sheremy stared at all this, the string quartet took up and began playing.

  ~

  None of the psychonomists could help Velvene uncover the true nature of love, so he was left with one obvious choice. The Church. Brought up to fear God and stand in awe of Jesus, he realised that the preachers of heaven above must know more about love than anybody, and so one day he clambered into his Archimedean floating system (in which he currently lived, berthed in Paddington Recreation Ground) and flew to the church of Her Holiness The Virgin Mary in Maida Vale.
<
br />   Attempts had been made to trim the hair around the church, but it grew high nonetheless, brown and thick, falling down from the roof in a floppy fringe. A path had been shaved through the hair, which Velvene followed, walking in silence into the empty, echoing building. He saw a single man in a brown robe polishing crucifixes, a man who turned and smiled when he heard Velvene enter.

  “Welcome my son. I’m Father Further.”

  Velvene felt soothed. He had been brought up in a house steeped in religion; the church air felt like balm. He replied, “Father, I have come to ask for help.”

  “The Church is always here to help members of its flock when they want to confess.”

  “Well, I do not wish to confess, more to discuss.”

  “But which of us is without any sin to confess?”

  Velvene considered. “I cannot think of anything at the moment. But listen, Father, I want to talk about love.”

  A beatific expression appeared on Father Further’s face. “God has granted one of my wishes.”

  Father Further gestured for Velvene to sit down on one of the front pews. Velvene, complying, continued, “You see, I am part of a wager, the object of which is to–”

  “A wager? Betting is a sin.”

  Velvene hesitated. “It is an intellectual wager with no money changing hands.”

  Father Further pondered this then, reluctantly, said, “Carry on, my son.”

  “I need to find out what love is at my earliest convenience. Can you give me any guidance, eh?”

  “I certainly can, and I can do it in one word. God.”

  Velvene nodded. “Could you be more specific, eh? I may have to give a speech to make my case when the time comes.”

  Father Further nodded. “God is love. Pure love.”

  Velvene nodded again. This was going to be more difficult than he had envisaged. “How do you know God is pure love?” he asked. “If I knew, I could perhaps state the facts to my colleagues.”

  “There are no facts in the Church. We have faith, and faith alone supports us and guides us.”

  “I am not quite getting my point across here, Father,” Velvene said. He thought back to events in his recent life and said, “Let me give you an example. You know these chaps, Rutherford, Röntgen, Einstein–”